


Be Kind to Her When She Stops Wandering

by AnnieAnnProps



Category: League of Legends
Genre: A Lot of Plot, Angst, Canon Compliant, F/F, Feels, Kinda?, Mind fuck?, Plot, Slow Burn, it's just plot, so much feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-27 16:18:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7625377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieAnnProps/pseuds/AnnieAnnProps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the pristine envelopes with the seal of a rose in black wax that brought their fates together for history repeats itself, always has, always will. Emilia LeBlanc knows this, but perhaps it'll be different this time around. And so she'll try her hand at puppet master once more; for entertainment? For redemption?</p><p>Her own or those of the lives she toys with?</p><p>Story doesn't follow Leblanc, more of the people her actions affect. In a sense, everything happens because of her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Karma

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this story on the back burner for two years now. Like, I wrote its entirety backstage during the run of a show night after night. Half typed out, half scrawled n a notebook, i decided to come back to it after realizing that holy shit, I love this plot line too. I guess I'm just a sucker for confusing wibbly-wobbly plots.

**Karma**

There is a cup of hot tea on the table when the door slides open. Though it is winter, the breeze that meanders in is a mere cool one. Karma’s eyes crack open before narrowing back down slightly.

“Elder Kumon,” Her voice bears a suspicious edge, she had already discussed with the man earlier that day. He should be on his way back to his providence. “What do I have to thank for this surprise visit?”

His wrinkled hand pushes the door closed behind him; no words leave his pressed lips.  From the darkness of his sleeves comes a single envelope and set next to the cup of tea. She watches as his lips move but they produce no sound. They move too little to be read.

“Elder.” A hand is rises, silence falls.

Karma’s stomach tightens at the odd behavior, in the back of her mind; she recalls a report of Noxian magic affecting the minds of her people. Ripples of her night gown flow down as she rises from her seat, bare feet stepping cautiously towards her peer.  

The air is still

Kumon brings his hand over and covers his mouth. She halts her advance.

“You are welcome, Karma.” She hears the elder’s voice.

She wants to stop him, to reach out and demand answers regarding his actions and for his impromptu midnight visit. But she doesn’t, merely watches as he smiles faintly and takes his leave. She draws in a breath the moment the door closes. 

The envelope is flawless, not a single crinkle or speck of dirt. The face is blank while the flap is sealed with black wax; the imprint of a rose dons the surface.

Leblanc

From her many visits to the newly established league, she has gathered only a handful of information on the magician. Her pulse quickens at the thought of such a powerful foe in the heart of Ionia; not only that, but wearing the face of an elder. 

She must warn the others. 

But first, the envelope. She hooks her finger under the lip and pulls. The rose does not break, parchment tears around it. 

A single plain card with a single line of text written in perfect Ionian characters. 

“Hayen Village, 270 men, 0600 tomorrow.”

A warning?

A bluff?

She doesn’t know what to make of it, the village sits west of the major front, from the reports, the red swarm is days away from its walls. Perhaps Noxus plans a covert operation to capture the large nexus beneath the mountain that the village sits upon.

There isn’t much she can do without a standing army. But there is one company that she could mobilize, more of a strike team than a company, a favor for a friend.

She doesn’t have much time.

The tea goes cold in the night.

-indifference-

Karma holds her breath for three days. When the report finally comes in, it is a sigh of relief that escapes. 

The village is safe and the general is still alive. 

-indifference-

On the fourth day, her door slides open once again, revealing a young farmer with a bamboo hat adorning her head and a dirt smeared cloth covering her mouth.  She steps in limping. 

She offers the duchess a letter, its crispness a stark contrast to the state in which she stands. 

Blank  with a rose in stamped in black wax.

Karma takes it and sets it next to her cup of tea just as before. Another cup is poured and slid to the other end of the small table. 

“Please join me; you must be tired from your journey.”

She stares at the elder with dark brown eyes, glancing between the offering and the tanned woman. She doesn’t expect the farmer to accept but she is pleased when she does. No words are spoken and the nameless bows before taking her exit without a single word. 

Karma is left alone with a card in hand and two empty tea cups.

“Dragon’s cove, three transport ships, 2300 two days’ time.”

The card finds a home in the pocket beside the first. Another chill runs up her spine on her way to the communication nexus. Another favor, another breath to hold. 

-indifference-

The third time the door opens; there is already a cup of tea waiting opposite of Karma. She speaks as her visitor closes the door.

“For whatever reason you are doing this for, I thank you.” She pauses, eyes staring blankly at the wall. “Leblanc.”

There is a pause then an airy chuckle floats through the room as if to humor her. 

“Clever girl.” The voice she hears is not of a child but that of a female with a light Noxian accent.

But it is a young boy that takes the seat in front of her. Another envelope is slid across the table next to her cup of tea.

“May I ask you a question?”

The child’s posture is proper, the way he holds the porcelain displays the etiquette imprinted on his mind. He takes a sip before replying.

“Speak.”

She considers her inquiry, sifting through the flurry of things she wants to ask the magician. Many of them are trivial, irrelevant to the big picture; the big picture of Noxus invading Ionia. 

“What do you gain from this?” 

Another chuckle, his eyes twinkle with much more than childish glee. He sets the cup down and makes the motion as if to wipe his mouth on the back of his sleeve but it stops, covering the movement of his chapped lips. The voice of a child is what she hears.

“Entertainment mostly.” Lips are curled back when the sleeve is removed, small white teeth gleam in the lamp light. The cup that hides his mouth next, somehow speaking as the tea is sipped. “It is amusing to see both sides of a war believe that they hold the upper hand. “  

It is then that Karma realizes that she and her country are being toyed with; played by a single woman. But there is nothing she can do, not when the warnings are allowing them to turn the tides of the war. A pawn in a game, she wonders if the Noxians know this.

If they are getting the same letters as she is. 

The pot is finished in silence.

He stands as tall as her navel when he rises to leave. His small frame is lost in the folds of his robe, fabric brushing against the floor as he bends over to bow. It takes a moment for Karma to register the act of respect and bow back. She feels a small hand lay on the back of her head, her eyes fixated on the small feet of the child.

“Ionia will play a key role in her future. When Noxus is reborn, she will seek strong allies with strong spirits.” In a second, the hand is gone, and when she stands, so is the boy. 

The paper tears, the wax holds, black rose still intact.

The card bears only a single name.

“Riven”

-indifference-

Two moon cycles past without a midnight visit. the reports that cross Karma’s hands are dire. Provinces fall, villages burned, scores of civilians slaughtered and left on the side of the roads to rot. Her lips purse at the thought, at least they had the dignity to bury the dead of their enemies. 

She hoped that they would withdraw, having drawn out the war longer than the Noxians had planned for. Instead, they brought more, a final card to quickly end their invasion. The Zaunite melters were devastating.

They haven’t won a single engagement in the last three weeks. Worn out units were pulling back to the Palicidium. What little military they could scrounge up were beaten back, even Irelia’s unit had to retreat with their tails between their legs. It was a blessing that the general made it out alive. 

In a week's time, the red swarm will that knocking on the gates of her city. 

When the door slides open, the elder does not even look up from her fixation on the cup in front of her. she hears the Noxian’s voice.

“Do you spend every night like this?”

In a blink of an eye, there is an elderly woman with the tea in hand seated across from her. The answer is obvious.

“Tell me, what do you think Ionia stands for?” With her mouth hidden by the cup, all she hears is the voice of a sweet grandmother. 

“Indifference.” 

There is a pause, she feels as if she should meet the woman’s gaze. She breaks away, staring at the swirling hot liquid in her hands. She wants to hear her true voice.

“Not peace or balance?”

A common misconception. 

“No, those are outcomes of indifference; the state of no emotions. No hate, nor love. To have one, you must have the other. But when our hand is forced.” 

Another drink of tea, she needs to collect her thoughts. She had tried to convince those of both sides to see the compromise. Exhausting 

“We are caught in the middle of Noxus and Demacia. Where Demacia fights with love at their hearts, wanting to save everything no matter the cost, they do not realize that nothing is so clean cut, they cannot wipe out injustice no matter what they do.” 

The woman seems to sit in contemplation, watching Karma intently as she answers. 

“And what of Noxus?” 

She finally looks up, searching the clouded gray eyes. She find nothing of worth, a blank gaze; empty and dead. Karma reminds herself that the woman is an infamous mage of the forces currently ravaging her homeland. 

“Noxus holds hatred and fear close to their hearts. Their burning hatred of feeling weak, fear that they will be cast aside for being worthless. Constantly feeling the need to prove themselves that they deserve to be alive, never again will they fall. The strong will prevail.” She quotes the rallying cries she has heard too many times over the horizon as red armies charged the walls. 

The cup is set gently on the table, still half full of tea. another blank envelope is slid across the table and the woman feebly walks to the door. Her hand rests on the side. 

She hears Leblanc’s voice. 

“Thank you.” 

The door opens and shuts.

The paper tears, the seal refusing to yield. 

“Aaya Pass, one prisoner, execution. Varus.”

The name is of man that Karma has personally met, having attended his duty ceremony. She has heard reports of his transformation, his near slaughter of an entire village guard for trying to stop him from charging into battle. Consumed by hatred, thirst for power. 

His execution. Is Leblanc trying to get her to save the man? A warning not to? She flips the card over, a single word stares back. 

“Indifference.” 

A sense of understanding. She has been presented a choice. 

Her pocket grows heavier.

-indifference-

“You saved him.” 

Karma, with her eyes closed, feels the door slide shut and feet pad over to her table. There is only one cup laid out, it is placed for her guest. The voice continues prancing through the air, it sounds confused. 

“You sacrificed 12 soldiers, ended the lives of 32 Noxians. All for one man; a man that would fit your definition of a Noxian.” 

she purses her lips, still still could not find the words to justify her actions.

“I did not make the decision.”

She looks up, peering into the questioning gaze of the teenage boy across from her. The lower part of his face is wrapped in dirty bandages.

“Oh? but you made the choice to share the information with council. How did they justify their orders to their provinces?” 

The word are more curious than judging. She merely seeks information now.

“It was a covert operation.” 

She refuses to speak any further on the topic and sits content with watching the boy drink the tea through the bandages. 

Before he leaves, he slides an envelope across the table alongside the empty cup. He stands and she sees the horrific wounds on the boy’s body. his legs are blackened and melted away, his clothes rags. She gasps softly at the sight of an arrow shaft jutting out of his stomach. 

And yet, contrast to the state of his health, the boy speaks calmly as if reciting a verse. 

“In Demacia, there is a statue of King Jarven II and his plaque reads; ‘To keep silent is to speak, not taking action is to act. Not choosing is a choice of its own. He who does not fight evil is a villain himself.’” 

He walks to the door, his charred feet leaving blackened prints on the floor. He stops before disappearing into the night.

Alone.

The paper tears, the seal remains.

“Palicidium, Irelia.”

She doesn’t understand, the other side is blank. There is no context and she is unsure if it is a warning or a call to action. The thought of her close friend being in danger sets a storm of worry in her chest. 

The card rests heavier than the rest.

-indifference-

The Noxian forces retreat. A celebration. 

All karma can do to watch her old friend sit on the temple rooftop, gazing down at the festivities below.

-indifference-

“You lost a good friend.”

She isn’t even startled at the now familiar voice. The air moist with the morning dew yet the damp trails on her cheeks bear no relevance with the weather. Out of the corner of her eyes she sees a cup placed on the slick railing in front of her, painted nails wrapped around the steaming drink. 

She does not recognize the smell of the leaves, it is nothing she has ever seen on the island. Nevertheless, she takes it, the dark liquid coats a layer of bitterness over her tongue. Its taste is deep, heavy, stifling. She takes a guess; a Noxian tea.

She wasn’t even aware that Noxians drink tea. It is different but not unpleasant.

She lets out a weighted breath. 

“I did.” 

Another consumed by anger, blinded with the sole purpose of bringing death to the other side. It made her think that the invasion succeeded more at turning Ionians into Noxians than killing them. 

“She is still there, locked away in that shell. She is not lost.” 

Karma finally glances to her companion, realising that she can hear the woman speak while seeing her lips move. This is Leblanc, the deceiver of Noxus, bearer of the black roses upon parchment. The mage looks at her and the face of complete understanding, almost comforting.

“She is only wandering.”

Her voice is solemn, countless lifetimes of sadness surfacing with her words.

“You Ionians remind me of the Atomens who once lived on this island as you do now. They practiced peace, refusing to become involved with the affairs of the mainland. Ironically, they killed all outsiders who set foot on their land.”

The change in subject is sudden, sparking confusion in Karma. She has never heard of this people that the other speaks of. Perhaps they could learn of this ancient civilization.

“What happened to them?”

Her eyes follow Leblanc’s hand as she points to the stone statue seated in the center of the garden. It is of a an emaciated man with the head of an ox and a prayer strip nailed to his chest. 

“You tell me, your people worship them.”

The color runs from her face at the connection. She had studied about them in great detail; most of the stories of their gods had been brutally tortured and murdered for their beliefs of inner peace. 

A moment of silence passes between them filled only by the sea of fluttering red prayer strips tethered to the trees of the garden. When the tea is finished, Leblanc tosses her cup to the wind and Karma watches in awe as it is carried off. She does the same, the two white vessels disappear into the landscape. 

“What happens now?”

“We continue living. There is much to be done in Noxus as there is in Ionia. I do not wish for your people to suffer the fate of your ancestors. They were...good people.” 

Leblanc climbs up onto the railing, somehow standing upright despite the slick surface the morning dew created. The wind picks up, the rustling of thousands of paper slips is deafening. Her voice seems to swirl around her.

“Good bye, Karma.” She glances back, “Be kind to her when she stops wandering.” 

Her body leans forward and Karma rushes to catch her. Her grasping hand passes through the woman. It feels as if she tried to catch a plume of smoke. 

There is no sound, no body, only a red prayer slip that is carried away with the breeze.

-indifference-

When she arrives home, she boils water and steeps a spoon of tea leaves. The room feels a bit colder, a bit emptier. In a moment of realization, she feels her pocket shift and grow heavier; the pocket she uses to carrying the envelopes.

Her hand reaches in, instead of a stack, they only find a single one, same as all the rest; no face with a black wax seal.

She near drops it when finger pull at the flap.

The seal breaks, the rose lays shattered atop of a field of ivory.

It is not a card, it is a crimson prayer strip that resides in the envelope. It bears a single line of text.

“Baiye Lake. Riven.”


	2. Irelia

**Irelia**

“Ma’am.”

Irelia doesn’t look up from the map tacked to the table, her fingers finish moving a red piece to a new location on the plains. She frowns; there is a handful of green pieces representing villages and a single green star representing the only strike force in service.

Irelia’s company of a mere 250 soldiers to defend an entire nation.

The foot soldier stands at attention at the mouth of the tent, patiently awaiting to be addressed, male. Perplexing, she swears it was a female’s voice she heard. It must be the lack of sleep she’s been getting the past week. It is midday with most of the company in the mess hall, this message is no doubt important if it couldn’t wait until after their noon meal.

“At ease.”

He steps forward, pulling up the scarf around his neck and letting out a dry cough. Hands fumble with extracting an envelope from the leather satchel strung across his chest. She takes it, examining the front.

“Who is this from?”

She rotates the piece of parchment searching for a name or any markings indicating who the sender was. Nothing

“You are welcome, Irelia.”

Displeased eyes shoot up, tongue ready to snap out a reparation for the soldier’s lack of respect. The space is empty, the tent flap waving in the winter breeze. She rushes out and scans the central grounds and finds nothing; only sounds are the laughter and chatter emanating from the mess tent.

Fear bubbles in her chest. There were tales of Noxian mages disguising themselves as farmers and infiltrating provinces, assassinating the elders and plunging the villages into chaos before red soldiers invaded. She takes the envelope and bursts into the mess hall, ordering her best casters to come with her. If there was magic on this thing...

Their inspection of the parcel turns up empty and they are dismissed back to their meals.

Alone in the command tent, the general looks over the blank envelope once more, fingers brushing over the black wax seal, a rose imprinted into its surface. It is nothing that Irelia has ever seen before.

The paper tears around the seal, no amount of bending snaps the rigid wax. Irelia has half a mind to return to the casters for a further inspection. But no, she is being too paranoid is she not? It’s a damned envelope. Calloused fingers extract the single card enclosed within. On it is a line of elegantly written Ionian characters.

“Ambush, North, 127 foot soldiers, 35 archers, 2000 tonight.”

A trick, she is sure of it. They will attack from the south or some other direction. Whoever this mage was, they were trying to pull guards from the other sides to fortify the north.

It is a trap, no doubt

She moves to give the order

Her feet stop, her mind picking the situation apart piece by piece, the voice of Karma gently reprimanding her for being rash.

_A sword without a mind will cut the wielder._

The mage had the perfect opportunity to kill her right there, to even poison the entire company in the mess hall with the same tactic. Why would they go to the extent of giving a false warning? Entertainment? glory of battle? What was the edge?

It didn’t add up.

Whatever would happen that night, the general was sure they wouldn’t go down without a fight. Two steps out and questioning eyes but they follow nonetheless. There is not a single soldier without a weapon in hand.

-her people-

The general gazes up at the Ionian banner flying high in the sky. Though she is battered and bruised with a stitched up gash on her shoulder, she allows herself a small smile before returning to her bunk.

-her people-

The mess hall is slightly less crowded than it were a few days ago, but they are still alive, and the soldiers greet her as they pass her by with their trays of food. They all blur into a single face, she barely knew a fourth of them by name.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.”

In a flash, the general presses herself close to the soldier, her dagger brandished and pressing into the unarmored small of his back. She recognizes the voice and his damned brown scarf. The tray of food is left forgotten on the table as she drags him out of the tent, making sure not to alarm the rest of the company present.

The biting mountain winds is almost as aggressive as Irelia’s grip on the soldier.

“Who are you?” She demands, pressed the blade closer, feeling the tip slide past fabric and sink ever so slightly into the flesh below.

She reaches up and tears away the scarf, revealing the man’s smiling face. His lips move but there is no sound. Her eyes are just fast enough to read them.

“I am a Noxian.”

A gust of freezing wind blows the cloth into her face and she blindly lashes out, swinging the dagger out in a wide arc. As expected, the man is gone when she tears the scarf from her face. Her weapon is coated with blood yet there is no trail to follow. She’ll lay a new rule, no one is allowed to cover their face.

A rat amongst her ranks and she will find them.

An envelope flutters to the ground.

Irelia takes another look around, nothing.

The paper tears, the seal remains.

A single card

“Dragon’s cove, Karma.”

Her blood runs cold at the sight of her friend’s name, the earlier fury draining from her system. Karma was never one for military strategy, but after her last request…

There is no date, no details except for her name.

“Ma’am.”

She looks up at the voice, this one male with a distinctive Ionian accent.

“At ease.”

He hands her an envelope embellished with a pink lotus. Unmistakably from Karma.

“A message from Duchess Karma.”

She takes it, glancing at the card in hand and back at the new parcel.

“Dismissed.” He bows and takes his leave.

It eases her that this messenger follows normal protocols.

After a ducking back into the large tent and retrieving a simple bowl of stew, she returns to her quarters and tears open the envelope.

“I am relieved to learn that your recent engagement of defending Hayen village and defense against an enemy an ambush we both a success. Good news is becoming scarce.

General, there is a pressing matter that I wish for you and your company to address. I warn you first that this is once again a personal request for me, not orders from the council. Yes, they are aware of the situation but for their own reasons, they do not trust the intel. I do and I am asking you to trust me and act on this.

It has been revealed to me that there will be a Noxian personnel drop of 3 transport ships at Dragon’s Cove on the 17th at 2300. I wish that I could give you more information than this but I am unable to. I will explain everything in detail at your next visit to the Placidium.

Please, whatever action you choose to take, be careful. May our ancestors watch over your fate.

-Karma”

Perhaps whoever has been contacting her has been contacting the duchess as well.

The general sits for a moment, contemplating while staring at the terrain map pinned to the wall of her tent. The cove was a full day’s march from their camp; if they were to leave in the morning, they would arrive with only a few hours to spare.

But if they left this evening.

The thought of marching into blindly Noxian controlled lands in the dead of night did not settle well with her.

They could wait until the after the drop, ambush the troops at the canyon mouth and use the higher ground to their advantage. She wasn’t sure how many troops were going to be offloaded. Three ships, no word of how big or how full. It would be a gamble.

But if Karma trusted…

She relents and gives the order, heavy boots strike the soil under a sky of stars.

-her people-

The sun is setting the next day when the cove comes into view. They arrive with five hours to spare, plenty of time to set up minimal defense measure, a rotation of sleep for the weary soldiers. Wood harvested from the nearby forest is driven into the ground, braziers loaded with fire, weapons and armor checked and equipped.

The general stands at the edge of the cliff, watching for the lights of the Noxian fleet. The camp around her is silent, ready in the darkness with their weapons held close.

She feels the apprehension thick over the camp; her soldiers following her orders without question, Irelia following these envelopes without question. If the information was correct, what would she make of situation?

Fingers pick away at the charred remains of the envelope, leaving only the pristine rose seal in the palm of her hand.

The paper had burned, the wax prevailed.

-her people-

Only a handful of Noxians lay down their arms, they are the only ones to survive the encounter.

Among the wreckage, Irelia is confused along with the rest of her unit when they find dozens of insect-like machines, not knowing of the carnage they had just prevented.

Or at least delayed.

-her people-

“Good evening, Irelia.” It is the female’s voice.

The dagger is quick to leave its sheath, poised to strike out. There is a soldier in strategy tent with the same scarf wrapped around his mouth. He stands in front of the map pinned to the table, his back to Irelia’s arrival.

“Good evening, Noxian.” Her voice is strained, still startled by finding her supposed enemy in their most important tent in the camp.

“Your map was outdated.” Her eyes dart from the broad back and down at the map. She notices that the pieces have been moved, many of the once green land now changed to red. The Noxian forces  had encroached even closer to the center of the island.

The change is dramatic, she hadn’t received a field report other than orders from the council in two weeks.

He twirls the green star in his fingers. She watches it as it’s tossed into the air and lands gently back into his palm. He spins it one more time before placing it on the map, sliding up and up, leaving the canyon and stops right below the Placidium. He intends for them to withdraw.

"You should centralize your defenses and use mountains to your advantage."

"We will hold this line." Anger boils in her throat, how dare this Noxian give orders to her.

Her dagger is still raised. Soldier looks amused as he shakes his head slightly and clicks his tongue.

"This is advice that will save yours and your company's life. The melters are marching and you do not wish to be in their path when they arrive."

Irelia scoffs, the word melter holds no meaning in her mind, a scare tactic. They were able to fend off plenty of attacks, this time would be no different. His hand raises, her grip on her weapon tightens but he merely beckons her closer to look at the map laid out. A moment passes, her feet finally bring her to the unknown soldier's side and her eyes cast down at the map. Dark eyebrows furrow at the extent of the invasion.

30 miles lost along the entire front, provinces wiped out, dozens more Noxian units with three more fleets incoming. The odds sink her stomach even further. Still, the thought of retreating does not even cross her mind.

"No soldier fights harder than one with everything to lose." He places the green start at the edge of the Placidium. "Choke points" a tan piece is slid to the land bridge over the Wu Long river.

The general's hand takes the clay pebble and moves it to a different location on the map. "The Bamboo forest, it is extremely dense with only one path through it. We can use the coverage."

"Bamboo will do nothing to stop the melters, your men will be burned along with the forest."

Dread begins to creep up her spine, sharp claws of self doubt. Could they really stand a chance against such a weapon? In a moment she is broken out of her trance and her eyes widen at the sight of the soldier admiring the dagger that was just in her hand. His fingers casually drag across the edge of the blade.

"What goes through your mind when your steel slides into the flesh of another?" Their eyes lock and the dagger bites into his thumb, a fat droplet of blood drips onto the map.

Her breath catches. She feels the warmth of the liquid itself, but deep down. She feels pain, despair, hopeless. The connection she has with her weapons is not as strong as her father had hoped, but it is still there, and it pulses with unrelenting loneliness, a thirst with no mouth and no way to sate it.

"Protecting Ionia. I fight to keep the lives of men, women, and children of this nation safe from harm. My sacrifice will allow them to walk the path of peace." She recites half-heartedly.

On some days the oath was the only thing that kept her on her feet, today is different. The soul that is painted across her blade is different.

"And what of the lives of those you end?"

Her teeth grind together. The ancient scriptures, those of which she was required to study, spoke of harmony and peace with those around them. That violence was something that was forced upon them when the peaceful were attacked. With the amount of blood on her hands, she surely would not be allowed to set foot on sacred grounds. She felt nothing at the sight of the ever silent sculptures sitting watch across the land.

What has peace earned them? An invasion, jokes on how they should just roll over and surrender. They couldn’t stay still in a world that demanded war.

The inquiry hangs unanswered.

“Irelia.” He is suddenly face to face with her. There is a tug at her spine, a whisper of...something. Her lungs seize, she almost loses the ability to move altogether. Almost.

The general’s hand jerks up and slaps away the soldiers attempt to place the dagger back into its sheath. For a moment, Irelia swears that he gasps in surprise before a chuckle sounds behind the scarf. She huffs, anger, fear, what sorcery had this thing just attempt on her.

“Tell me, do you fight for Ionia’s people or her ideals?”

“Her people.”

Her answer is bitter. Alone to stand in defense of her home so that her brother may have something to come back to. If he was still alive.

There is a tint of pity that flashes through his eyes, for her or her answer? The man shakes his head and hands her the dagger and another white envelope.

The flap of the tent lifts, halfway out he whispers to the general.

“Thank you.”

The paper tears, the seal remains.

“Palicidium, Karma.” It does not come as a surprise as they had just discussed withdrawing her forces to the city. Karma’s name comes as a relief, she prays that it means her friend still lives.

However, there is a name underneath the line.

“Riven”

She scowls at the name.

The butcher; white-haired commander of Noxus’s ‘clean up crew’. She herself, from the handful of accounts they’ve received, had slain just as many people as the frontline. Ruthless, pitiless, cruel with a sick sense of entertainment.

The commander would challenge all soldiers still able to fight to a duel, a test of strength, a way to flaunt and puff her chest. None who accepted survived. Even if they laid down their weapons, she would order one of her company end their life. The only ones she would spare were civilians, though many would pick up a weapon from the ground and try to take her by surprise.

Irelia commended those defiant till the end.

But it was for that reason that the reports on the woman were scarce.

Those who did walk away remember a chant she would utter as the last breath of the slain left their body.

“Honor to those who die with their ideals at heart.”

Fury began to stir back in the general’s gut, what was the meaning of this monster’s name on the card. Was she to fight her at the Palicidium?

Eyes widen, was the butcher already there?

She flips the card over, hoping for more information.

“Her people”

Frustration, she’s being toyed with. Irelia storms out. The order is barked. By the early morning light, she lowers the Ionian banner and the company marches to the city.

-her people-

Day by day, Irelia updates her map, the red inching closer and close. There is a stack of reports that deepen the pit of dread every time she glances at them. All they hold are the number of those she couldn’t protect.

The melters march on

-her people-

When she meets with Karma, the advisor pours them tea and the general unfurls her map. Letters with the seal of a black rose are traded. They do not sleep that night.

-her people-

“The final battle is coming, general.”

Irelia only twitch slightly when she hears the voice behind her, the same one that precedes confusion and a crisp envelope. She turns, expecting to see the soldier from all those times before. Instead, it is a woman with misty eyes and a wicked smile; hair that blends into the dark sky.

A Noxian spellcaster

“It is.” Her chest feels as if it’s being crush, the unforgiving grip of despair had been her companion ever since arriving in the city. Never has she felt this kind of trepidation before a battle.

But against the abominations tearing across her land, no sword could defend against a hail of toxic fire.

Scouts report enemy encampments over the hill where they had sent back their messenger. They would fight to the last breath of every soldier. Their commander said they had until morning to either change their minds and make peace with their deaths.

The guards are at their posts, civilians evacuated to the center of the city at the temple. The sun hours away from rising. They were as ready as they could be.

“What’s your name, Noxian?”

There is a tug at her belt, she can feel the air hitting the bare metal of her dagger that now lays in the hands of this strange woman. Is it strange that she no longer feel apprehension about her?

“I am surprised you did not ask me sooner.” She produces a metal tin, it’s lid dented and dull with what looks to be smears of old blood. It reeks of something toxic.

“I am Leblanc.”

Irelia reacts immediately, jerking away to dodge the slow strike. She curses herself for letting her guard down; the trickster plans to take her out before they storm the city. Astonishment decorates the general’s face, warmth trickles down her forearm from a shallow cut on her pale skin.

Impossible, sorcery; she hadn’t felt the pain, she _knew_ she moved fast enough to avoid the blade.

“I have felt the pain of death before.” Irelia seems to blink back into reality, her hand held in the grasp of the woman, _Leblanc_. She wants to wrench her hand away and kill mage, but she doesn’t, standing there as soft fingers wipe away the blood.

“It is like you have so much more to offer, so much more left to do. But in that last moment of life.”

The lid reluctantly parts from the canister. Inside is a pale green salve already half used. It feels cool and tingles on her skin.

“You realize that that is all you have left; broken promises, things you intended to do. All it useless and meaningless because in the end, your story is complete as you remember it and ready for tales to be spun from it.”

Her arm dries, the skin unmarked, not even blood remains.

“What are you talking about?” Irelia asks, her mind already laden with the fate of her country.

Leblanc places the tin into the general’s hand, sliding the dagger back into its sheath. She looks into her eyes, serious, emotionless.

“You are going to die this morning, Irelia.”

Her heart skips and thunders. Yes, that was always a possibility, but for this woman who had been foretelling the future to say it as if it were fact. No, it can’t, the events only happened because they were Noxian military movement. No more than a spy predicting the actions of the enemy.

The reasoning does not help with how much her hands shake.

Leblanc continues, looking away into the distance. Her voice is even and steady.

“You’re not going to remember me or my visits; your childhood, your past, your brother or father.”

“I will be dead.”

She pauses, looking back with mild amusement.

“You do not believe in reincarnation.” It is a statement of realization.

Irelia scoffs at the thought. Every soldier of her company preached about the idea, openly praying that they would be reborn as a strong ox or a peaceful tree.

Foolish, it made them careless about the life they lived now.

“No.” It sounds as if she had been insulted.

“Funny”

For a moment, her beliefs falter. Was this woman implying-

“Am I to be reincarnated?”

Leblanc doesn’t answer. Instead, she opens the balcony door leading back into the strategy room. With the wave of her hand, the markers on the map vanish. Reaching into her robe, the general’s eyes follow her closed fist.

“You will only remember one thing; your hatred for us.” A pendant without a string is placed at the western gates of the Palicidium.

“Blind, hollow, nothing to guide you but that hate.”

She remembers the man who gave himself to the pit of corruption.

The map of the city blurs and morphs into a map of Ionia. Slender fingers pick up the charm and flicks it into the air.

All she hears it the metal striking the wood clattering to a rest. Its polished face of a phoenix hides the name of the lake it sits upon.

Irelia swallows thickly. She faces the woman with brave eyes.

“And this is what will become of me.”

Two fingers slides the pendant over, revealing the location to be ‘Baiye Lake’. Her face is blank as she picks up the offered trinket, cool metal against clammy palms.

“It is, Captain of the Guard.”

That’s not her title.

Cold lips press against her forehead. Stumbling back, Irelia searches for something in LeBlanc’s eyes, mirth, mischief, any hint to this merely being a strike to morale.

Nothing

She doesn’t move, only watching as she backs away to the door. LeBlanc’s lips move but it is the voice of her father she hears.

“Be kind to her when she stops wandering.”

And she is gone

The air settles back into an eerie stillness. There is a single envelope that sits upon the map.

The seal breaks, black shards of shattered wax lay atop a field of ivory.

The card is blank save for one name.

“Riven.”

Irelia scowls and crumples the parchment. Though her heart still thunders in her throat, she is sure the Noxian was toying with her. All of them, sick humor.

She will survive the morning.

-her people-

The lid of the wooden box opens. All the past cards are gone, a red prayer slip remains.

“Baiye Lake, one woman, Riven.”

It is the last thing the general reads before the walls rock and the attack begins.

-her people-

Irelia awakens, cold. Her hands are red, a blink, they are clean. There is now a mantle floating behind her head; a great honor they say.

But they have fear in their eyes

She wanders the temple grounds. Red slips adorn the trees; it is the month of mourning for those lost in the war. Noxians and Ionians, side by side as tradition would have it.

Repulsive, it is a word that crosses the captain’s mind, not a feeling.

Her father’s, no _her’s,_ blade moves on its own, slicing a thread. The prayer slip flutters to the ground at the feet of the impassive woman.

“Baiye Lake, one woman, Riven.”

A memory, somewhere deep down.

Anger, the first thing she’s felt in weeks, boils up. She remembers the name as if it had been brands into her mind. A murderer, heartless, killer of the defenseless. There is an urge to go to the lake, as if the dead commander is there for her to kill again. To avenge the people she had slaughtered.

There is a whisper of familiarity, a fog. She pays no heed and sets off on her journey           


	3. Riven

**Riven**

The room echoes with the sound of metal grinding against stone. Oil slick hands, tired hands, restless like the rest of her.

She is always sleepless the night before deployment.

There is a creak of wood and then a rustle of leather beside her.

“I have a door.” Smiling, fondness

She doesn’t need to look up to see who it is. 

A tentative hand finds its way onto her leg, stilling her sharpening. It’s been this way for weeks, ever since the order had been given. Nights of hesitant fingers, asleep in eachothers arms, guiltily wishing for it to be different. 

“Promise me you’ll return.” The voice does its best not to sound desperate. 

It almost succeeds. 

Riven cups her clean hand onto the jaw of the woman, a lover perhaps. It eases in, uncharacteristically docile. She would give the world to this woman; a heart as fiery as her hair. 

She does her best to sound confident.

“I promise”

She almost succeeds.

-strength-

The commander’s nose wrinkles in disgust, her line cling onto the railing of the ship for dear life as they retch their breakfast over board. They were foot soldiers; the closest thing they got to the sea was the fish for their evening meals. 

Another waves rocks the deck, another ripple of groans.

Two more days until land, six more meals wasted on her pathetic company. 

But they are family, so they will continue to eat. 

-strength-

Riven stops mid step.

Over the crashing waves and idle chatter, she hears the voice of a female cut the air, one that causes her hair to bristle at the thought of her presence. Her eyes scan over the gathered soldiers, they catch the gold eyes of a face hidden behind a scarf. 

She stalks over to the group, the soldier having noticed her approach with a glimmer of mirth. 

“Attention!” They snap, Gold Eyes is a hair slower than the rest. 

“You, follow me, the rest; as you were.” 

They comply, falling back into their chatter as the commander walks away with the woman in tow. Riven shoves her into the room before shutting the door behind her.

“What business do you have on my ship, deceiver.” 

LeBlanc sheds her disguise, slightly impressed with how quickly she had been caught. But she wouldn’t expect any less from the poster child of Noxus. 

“Sharp as always.” Hands bury into the pockets of her uniform, extracting a pristine canister and an envelope. They are placed on the table.

Still no answer. Impatience flares, Riven moves in on the mage. 

“Answer the question.” 

The air becomes saturated with magic, the air stills in her lungs as her body stiffens against her will. Only her eyes move to follow the false soldier, finger lightly pressing on her thin lips. Warm breath on her cheek. 

“Do not tell the other ships.” It is said with a smirk, as if she knows riven will obey the command. 

The door opens behind her, the finger hooking under and tilting her chin up. 

“You are welcome, Commander Riven.” 

It shuts and she crumples to the ground gasping for breath into her starved lungs. It was the same magic that she trained to resist in the academy, yet there she was, at the mercy of this blasted woman. 

She knows better than to try pursuing the soldier. 

The tin is heavy with the stamp of some sort of flower on its underside. Inside is a pale green gel with a pungent odor. It comes to her, having only once seen a smear of it during a campaign in the Tempest Flats.

A potent healing salve from the Kumungu Jungles, lethal to manufacture; a soul essence must be used to stabilize the regenerative properties of the plant from which it is distilled. In her palm, the life of a nameless person, willing or unwilling. It feels heavier than it is. 

The envelope is spotless. Her fingers ghost over the black wax seal. A letter from the Black Rose always led to the death of someone. She has half the mind to toss it out to sea but as much as despises them, she has no doubt that whatever is in it would be worth her time.

The paper tears, the seal remains. 

It does not surprise her.

Inside is a card, orders she presumes.

“Change course, Jade Beach.” 

Riven’s brows furrow, the command an odd one. The beach was far from their planned course to the drop point Dragon Cove. If they were to change paths now, it would add a full day to their journey to land. 

How would she explain it to command?

She is torn, for whatever reason the Black Rose wanted her company to split from the rest with even notifying them. For what reason? Would they be avoiding death or sailing straight into it?

Reluctant, though she does not show it, the commander tells the mages to cut all communications off ship until they reach land, the bridge to change course for Jade Beach. 

All their questions go unanswered.

-strength-

The report comes in the moment their boots hit the sand. Three ships captured by Ionian forces at Dragon Cove, an entire battalion of Zaunite machinery lost. Command depends a reason why she cut off communications, why she had disobeyed orders and left her charge underprotected. She gives them none. 

Punishment, not death; their company is still of use. They are reassigned to be vultures, throat slitters. No glory of the battle of the front. Her family is disappointed but they are all happy to be alive.

None of them would’ve surrendered at Dragon’s Cove.

-strength-

Her knee is stiff, the nerves still holding onto the belief that a barbed shaft was still embedded in the joint. No amount of the salve eases the ache. They are without a healer, not worth the trouble when people are dying on the front. She limps her way back into her tent, bones eager for the embrace of her cot. 

“Commander.” The woman awaits her when the flap of the tent is lift. She is toying with the clay tea pot Katerina had given her on a whim, saying that the ornate lion on the side reminded her of the soldier. 

It brings her comfort after every mess they clean up. 

Riven stumbles past her, falling heavily onto the makeshift bed. In silence, Leblanc watches her as she removes her armor piece by piece and setting them aside. It is only when the last pauldron is neatly put away does Riven roll her shoulders and acknowledge the mage.

“What do you wish from me, deceiver?” 

She look expectant at her, prepared to hear the name of a poor sap needing to dealt with, though, Riven would not be the best candidate for assassinations. But what else could she possibly offer apart from the bite of her sword. 

“Why must you make such assumptions?”

Riven can’t stand how suggestive Leblanc’s voice is, how sly, like a smile with a dagger in hand. The tent is small, the woman able to cross it in a few strides. Up in front of seated woman who is ready to just kick her out for some sleep. 

A hand reaches for her snowy locks. 

“People do things to earn favors.” Riven growls, her hand quick to swat the offending limb away. “Now I am indebted to you and you are here to collect.” 

The statement is rough and strained. If she’s awake any longer, the guilt will come back to gnaw at her mind. 

“Such confidence. Hold onto that, Riven.” Her body locks up once more, fingers threading through her hair. She can’t tell whether the woman is mocking her or not. 

But she is strong, so she will fight.

LeBlanc takes her time placing an envelope beside Riven whose head is too heavy for her shoulders, unable to draw breath. Not a second too late, air rushes back into her lungs, choking, head throbbing.

Cursed woman with her cowardly tactics. 

Angry hands tear at the paper, the seal remains. 

“Fubai Temple, 327 people, 120 soldiers, guardian, Varus.”

The commander searches the card for any information she didn’t already know. The campaign was scheduled for tomorrow, the Fury company to come do a sweep the following day. This guardian, Varus, worth a note.

Riven calls up the contact mages, passing the information to the invading company. She can tell they take it with a grain of salt when she mentions the Black Rose. Everyone knew  _ of  _ them, but their intentions remained up to speculation.

She bids them strength in their forthcoming trials. 

-strength-

“Contact Established.” 

Dust picks up as the air swirls around the seven mages at the front of the clearing. A deafening hum falls over the gathered company in the center of the destroyed temple. A clean sweep, more blood on their hands.

In a flash, a scene comes into existence above the casters, one that command had ordered all companies to watch. 

The Halbert company stands at attention while the younger of the blood brothers stand at the front. His usual cocky grin replaced with an angry scowl. There is a heavy amount of bandages wrapped around his left arm. 

“Listen up peons. I’m not usually one to preach,” Riven bites back a scoff, this man was a fool back in Noxus. “But let me remind you what we stand for. Bring up the scoundrel!”

A man is pushed forward, his arms bound behind his back. The skin on them is cracked and gnarled, a deep purple pulsing underneath. 

“This man is one hell of a shot.” A wave of disbelief rolls over the ranks. Draven was infamously the most egotistical man ever allowed to live on Noxian soil. For him to actually compliment someone other than himself. 

“But his strength is ill got!” the executioner kicks the back of his knees, forcing Varus to the ground with a thud. 

“Look at him! Disgusting, he did not train to hone this strength. A cheat. Weak. So pathetic that you jumped at the chance to become someone you did not earn.” Draven kicks him again, landing a sharp blow to his ribs. 

“You do not know me, Noxian.” A kick to the face silences the man.

“No, and I don’t want to, monster.” Draven face lights up, drawing his axe above his head. “But now for the fun part.”

Riven commends the fire still burning in Varus’s eyes. The scene flickers and rocks as if the mages on the other side had been interrupted. There is shouting, the drawing of weapons.

“Ambush, ambush! To arms!” 

It is the last thing to come over the connection before it is lost, a murmur falling over her troops. 

“Riddick!” She barks for her second in command.

“Ma’am.”

“See to it that we are ready to move out within the hour, Aaya Pass is half a day’s march north. We will do what we can.” 

She turns sharply, gesturing for one of the contact mages to follow. The other companies would want to know of their movements. 

“Ma’am yes Ma’am.” 

They find a prayer room, her and two others stand as a sculpture of a  woman with the head of an elephant looms over them. Its eyes, though one missing and the other cracked, seem to bear down a judgement upon them.

A long sigh escapes her mouth, her mind numb as she makes the first of many connections.

-strength-

Riven is alone inside the prayer room when there is a knock on the empty doorframe. 

“Speak.” 

“Ma’am, the Fury Company present and accounted for. They await further orders at the clearing.”

She looks back at the destroyed statue. It doesn’t speak to hear, doesn’t look at her, just a large rock with a face carved into it.

The march is a silent one. 

-strength-

There is nothing left when they arrive at Aaya Pass. The only indication of a battle is the read splashed on the dirt. Fury Company moves on to regroup with whatever was left of the Halbert company. 

A message comes through, the Ionians had disengaged and fled into the woodwork after securing Varus. Orders came for them to press forward and forget about the gutless rats. 

When they come to a rest, Riven climbs a hill for a vantage point. In the setting sun, she can see a sea of stakes, each with a fluttering red slip. Ionian graves.

“Honor to those who die with their ideals at heart.” 

She walks back down and the Fury Company marches on.

-strength-

54 prisoners from the Carnic Company

Riven stands over the body of the dead soldier who tried to weedle his way out of his death. Rather than accept her offer of a duel, he said the town nearby would exchange their prisoners for their lives. 

A part of her is disappointed the information did not come from an envelope with the seal of a black rose. Would it had been more trustworthy?  

In the end, she didn’t care. The company had orders to kill all who the front missed, she did not deal with diplomacy. 

But at their midday meal, looking over the smiling troops she called her family, those who trusted her with their lives. The Carnic Company would’ve been the same. What would become of them knowing that High Command did not take surrenders lightly. But if they passed the test...

54 prisoners, lives, people just like her. 

“We march east to this town,” Riven announces after the meal concludes. She expects disdain but the troops nod in approval, there is something that shines brighter than before when they look to her. 

It makes Riven pause. Would she do this if her own men were captured? Would she want others to do the same for her?

She refuses to answer her own questions

-strength-

No deceiver comes on their march, it’s just Riven and the churning pit in her stomach.

-strength-

Her soldiers cut through the town’s meager guard easily, leaving any person with a weapon dead on the ground. Either way, she wouldn’t have accept a surrender if they stood their way.

It is a heavy wooden cage in the center of town with a thatched roof over it. They look well fed, healthy, complacent. 

Pitiful

The group stands and gathers at the door to the enclosure. The shock on their faces obvious, no one ever made the effort to rescue captured soldiers. Accustomed to Demacian tactics who loved to use diplomacy and trades. 

“Carnic Company, does your commander still walk?” Riven bellows, trying to convince herself that the prisoners were worth the effort. That they would make a good addition to her own numbers. 

But what’s to stop them from surrendering again. 

“He does not.” A woman steps forward, snapping a salute. There is a bloody bandage wrapped around the left side of her face. “Lieutenant Saniv, second in command of the Carnic Company.” 

Riven unlocks the door with the keys she plucked off the body of a guard. Saniv bows her head, accepting the sword Riddick hands her. A tradition, the only way to respectively reinstate deserters and those who allow themselves to be captured. 

Their strongest against the strongest of the company they wish to join. 

“I, Lieutenant Saniv of the Carnic Company, challenge Commander Riven of the Fury Company to redeem myself and the soldiers under my command.”

The woman extends the sword. No words of thanks for they had not been saved yet. If she failed to impress the commander, their final options were few. Either execution or Riven would move on without them. They would not house soldiers who couldn’t pull their weight. 

Riven extends her own standard issue broadsword and rests its flat against the other. Her mind clears as it does at the beginning of every battle. Calming breath, this was not her foe, she was not aiming to kill. 

A quiet mind.

“I accept.” 

The duel begins. 

-strength-

The Fury Company marches on, 54 more strong.

-strength-

“You passed her.”

Riven glances up from her mindless task of mending her armor. She’d already grown tired of Leblanc’s sporadic visits and cryptic messages. It wasn’t worth her time.

“She was strong.” 

A weight sinks into the cot beside her. 

“But not strong enough.”

She shiver, questing fingers press into the sore muscles of her arm. Riven bitterly agrees in her mind, thoroughly unimpressed with the other woman’s skills. Granted she was half blind, but one is only as strong as they are at their weakest. She couldn’t even draw blood while her own blade nearly severed Saniv’s arm. 

It was fortunate that there was a healer among the captured. 

“They deserve a second chance.”

The armor is slapped out of her hands. She looks at other with a questioning gaze. It seemed that LeBlanc wanted her to pay attention. to their conversation.

Yellow eyes sharpen, challenging, it takes Riven by surprise. They remind her of the emerald ones back home.

_ Home _

“They will die.”

“Then they will die with honor.” Riven cannot help but bristle at the accusation, as if their death would be her fault. All soldiers knew that it was the ultimate end that claimed most of them. Something that she made peace with, but they will die with a weapon in hand, the blood of their enemies at their feet. 

Their ideals at heart.

“There is no honor in dying at the hands of your own nation.”

The statement doesn’t make sense, they all died for a reason, nothing was ever wasted in Noxus. All skills honed and utilized. If they had nothing to offer, they were not worth the trouble. If High Command were to throw the lives of troops away, it would at least serves as a distraction for something bigger. 

“Tell me Riven.” A hand hovers centimeters away from her cheek, she wants to flinch back...but doesn’t, can’t. “What do you think Noxus stands for?”

She regards LeBlanc who should know the answer as any proud Noxian would.

“Strength.” It is growled, conviction. “Forged through pain and blood. Strength above all else.”

The words are second nature to her. The hand touches down, soft and cold, electricity courses from the contact. 

Torn bodies, unrecognizable to be human. Blood making mud of the dirt. Burning villages. No glory, an extermination.

Like a brush fire, nothing surviving, High Command ordering the slaughter of civilians. 

The touch is gone, the vision with it.

“Only the strong survive.” Riven grinds out.

It was the line etched into the archway of the arena where her father had entered. He didn’t even make it past the first round. He should’ve trained harder. 

The past was the past. She would not make the same mistake. 

A breeze sweeps across Riven’s face. She swears she feels the brush of lips on her own before she sees the flap of her tent fall. There is an envelope balancing atop the completely mended armor. 

Paper tears, the rose taunts

“Coeur Valley”

They receive the order the given the next morning.

-strength-

A pair of broken eyes scans the valley below. They are dry from crying, from restless nights, from the toxic cloud that still lingers in the air. 

The tin of salve gone, lost in the fighting. Her back still raw and angry. In the night, she are smell the rot of her flesh. It aches along with her entirety. 

A blade is shattered

A promise broken

She doesn’t look back

-strength-

“You are strong, Riven.”

Seconds pass with no response. LeBlanc stands outside the crude tent pitched by the lake side, waiting for the inhabitant to charge out.

And she charges like a bull.

Weapon drawn, the former commander tears through the flap, lips pulled back into a deep snarl. Already, there are tears welling in her eyes. 

“You snake!” She screams, her voice cracking, lungs and throat still scared. The figure that greets her is not that of LeBlanc, but a warrior with an unnerving mask she had seen during the blood moon festivals. It startles her enough to almost have her throat slit open. 

“I am not Cassiopeia.” It’s still Leblanc’s voice, as if offended by the notion.

The deceiver’s attacks could hardly be called fluid, they are a style she had never seen before. Limbs jerky as if pulled by an inexperience puppet master but they are still fast and still as deadly as the sword she wields. 

“You led my men into a trap!” 

Riven swings wildly, emotions that haunt her at night resurfacing hot and raw. The tissue of her back begs her to stop but she is not weak. 

And so she keeps fighting.

There is no calmness in her mind, only the white rage she feels for this woman in front of her. Oh how blindly she believed, she trusted. How her troops trusted her and died around her. Her lungs cannot keep up in the state they are in. She should’ve seen a healer to properly extract the of the toxins in her blood. 

In the back of her mind, riven knows she is out matched and careless, picking out every opportunity that leblanc had to run her through. But it didn’t matter, nothing mattered anymore. Nothing to live for, to die for.

After a particularly wide strike that misses, Riven lets out a cry of pain when a pommel is driven into her side with a sickening crunch. She struggles to draw air and for a moment, LeBlanc pauses and regards her, seemingly surprise at the noise.

Embarrassment and disgust courses through Riven as she comes to terms with the state her body is in. The strike shouldn’t have been strong enough to break bone, but alas, she wasn’t the the same woman as a year ago. With one hand clutching her side, the other brandishing her broken sword, she stares on at the mage, unwavering.

“Riven, what do you fight for?” 

She doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to think, please, mindless fighting brings her comfort. All the progress she had made, over self hatred, guilt, wishing for death. It all comes crashing down.

“I don’t know!” the tears stream down her face and yet she stands defiant, angry. “I fought for Noxus, for her ideals. That died with everyone else in Coeur Valley”

It’s a slap in the face to say it out loud to another soul. She thinks back to the teaching of the Ionian religion she picked up on her travels around the island. To think rationally, spiritually, to understand. 

She want to be angry, it’s easier that way. 

But this woman was not solely responsible for what happened to her on that day. And if she were, her anger now will only bring her more pain. 

“So what will you do about it?” 

Riven’s body goes rigid once more, like all those times before. No movement, trapped in her body with just her thoughts; for as long as she can hold her breath. Her eyes slide closed.

Leblanc’s voice swirls around her, above, below, resonating in the darkness of her head. 

“Noxus is wandering just as you are. She has forgotten the trials that forged her unlike you. She looks for shortcuts, cheats, scourging up whatever she can just to gain the edge.”

Every muscle aflame, begging her to breath. 

“You are strong, Riven. Noxus needs your help.” 

In the black vision, a face appears as real as ever. It is not one she recognizes; sharp emerald eyes that remind her of better days, but the face distinctly Ionian, hair long and dark like a midnight waterfall. 

“Not all who wander are lost.” 

The woman leans in close, words whispered centimeters from her lips. 

“Be kind to her when she stops wandering.” 

Frigid, painted lips capture her own, the sight of woman stays but she can sense the memories flooding into her brain; a past she did not live. Of a father teaching her to speak to the steel of her sword, a loving brother, a rushed goodbye. Emptiness just like her own.

This time, the air does not rush back in, she doesn’t even notice when she is breathing regularly again. The lone rune of her once great sword pulses brightly to the beat of her heart. It is quiet, her ribs healed, were they even broken in the first place?

Nothing indicates there ever being a visitor. 

She spends the evening outside, watching the sun set over the still lake. Conviction gathers itself in her heart, something she hadn’t felt since the death of her company, her family. When the sun sets, she decides to return to her tent, only out of habit. 

On her cot sits a the lion teapot she left behind so long ago and a letter. 

The seal breaks, the rose lays shattered atop a field of ivory. 

Two names

“Karma”

“Irelia”

Meaningless

A voice in the wind.

“Goodbye, Riven.”

She dreams of the woman that night.


	4. Knots

**Knots**

“Come and face me, butcher!” 

It is the lake that was written on the prayer slip. Irelia still does not know why she feels such anger for this woman, this faceless woman. But it’s thrilling.

“Noxian!” 

Her blade carries her rocketing over the water, over the shoreline as her eyes scour the land for some sign of her target. 

A fire

Her dismount is haphazard, the wet soil suck at her feet as though trying to hold her back. 

“Riven!”

The moment the flat of the tent is lifted, steel strikes steel.

-undone-

“What do you have there, Irelia?” 

She is a child, beaming up at her father with satisfaction. 

The aged man smiles, gingerly picking up the dagger into his hands to examine it. A chuckle rumbles out of his chest. The edge is uneven, one side ground at a sharper angle than the other. He takes her hand and leads her back to the grinding wheel.

The afternoon passes with his hands teaching her how to bend the steel to her will. 

-undone-

Irelia snaps back from the memory, instinctively parrying a thrust and putting some distance between her and her foe.

Sweat pours from the Noxian’s brow, corrupted lungs straining to fuel her body with the oxygen it demands. They both bleed but it is only Riven whose movements are getting slower, her strikes more clumsy. 

The blood on her weapon. The source of her vision?

She tries to recall, but nothing comes. Their weapons connect with the sound of grinding. Her vision crumbles away.

_ Remember _

-undone-

There are too many, the gate has broken, the red swarms in. Streets become slick and littered with bodies. 

Irelia’s blade find yet another bloody sheath and another life. Her spine tingles whenever warmth wraps around the steel and feeds it the pulsing of a heart not her own. 

But exhaustion has been settling into their bones, slowly, the line being push further and further back. The fact is plain and simple; there are just far too many. 

“Ma’am, North gate has been overrun, South gate has already fallen back to the central temple.” The soldier reports over the sound of fight and dying. For one who believes in reincarnation, she sneers at the fear in his voice. 

A spear breaks through her guard and pierces her mail. Gritting her teeth, she skewers herself further to slice the throat of her attacker. 

“We hold the line.”

Irelia unceremoniously yanks it out and tosses it aside her blood pouring out the wound so refuses to acknowledge. She will protect them.  

If they fall back, they’ll have less ground to maneuver, like fish in a barrel for the melters to strike. 

“But ma’am-”

She nearly runs her sword through the ally just to shut him up.

“We hold the line!”

She chokes, her blade sings for her.

-undone-

Riven can barely keep up now. Clothes stick to her body with sweat and blood. It’s darker with a purple tint to it and smells of death. 

Irelia lunges, still driven by the anger with no reason, frustration of not knowing, the need for more of her memories to come back. No other fight has made her feel so...so..

The captain expects her to parry, for another flash and surge into a vision. But she doesn’t, Riven watches her with tired eyes as the blade buries itself into her stomach. 

Time stills, no sound. Irelia can feel the warm pulse ripple through the steel. 

-undone-

A shattered rose atop a field of ivory

Riven

Be kind of her when she stop wandering

-undone-

“How is it to finally feel alive again.” The words are whispered against her cheek.

Irelia flinches back. Who is this woman?

A line of blood trickles down the corner of her chapped lips. With every breathe, she shutters, shivers, shakes against the blade impaling her. 

She is breathing with her, reflex perhaps? But when was the last time she drew breath? They slow, the pulse slowing, the fullness of her chest ebbing away with it. It begins to rise up again.

Emptiness

Hollow

She doesn’t move, can’t move, as Riven pushes herself forward. The steel drives deeper still and yet the woman take one last step to she is almost flush with Irelia’s body.

Lips slick with blood that stings her skin when they press against her own.

Something forgotten drums through her veins. 

“Please.” The word is croaked with a mouthful a blood spills out. She meets Riven’s eyes, they full of pity despite the situation she is in, understanding. Does she know what happened to the famed captain?  

“Stop wandering, Irelia.” 

Begging, pleading

It all comes flooding in, Irelia can remember.

Her heart remembers how to beat

Her lungs remember how to breathe

Her mouth wants to apologize

For the first time since her father died

Irelia cries

-undone-

Karma steps out from the treeline and onto the muddy shoreline. It is serene and peaceful much like the rest of the island now. 

The campsite she finds stinks of sick blood. 

Torn up soil and a pile of crimson stained rages outside the tent. A pot of water boils away over the fire.

There are bloody handprints on the flap of the tent as she goes to pull it back. Karma can’t help but smile softly at the sight, 

Beneath a worn blanket is a woman with a head of white hair, in the air the smell of something pungent and magical.There is an empty tin, a tea pot and a polished charm of a phoenix on the bedside table. 

Karma pulls up the only stool in the tent and waits, watching the commander sleep peacefully.

And Irelia sleeping tucked under Riven’s arm.

-undone-

Change comes slow and bloody. The winds carry the dust of the fallen into the mountains to rest. 

A new general, a new High Command

The Du Couteau swears allegiance to her. A reunion, bitter, it is the last they see of the woman with the red hair. 

-undone-

Bittering cold wind blows over their exposed faces, bullying its way through the seams of their winter coats. Winter nights in Noxus is not much quieter than day, the only difference is the lack of shouting in combat training and more grinding of magic driven machinery. 

But the plaza that Irelia and Karma stand in is as still as he monument that towers over them. 

Cast in plates of metal with a single drumming emerald rune in her sword, the Master General’s stern  face illuminated with a green glow against the black sky. 

However, when they look up to the face, its eyes seem to soften in recognition. Perhaps it’s just the trick of the light and a touch of wishful thinking. 

Karma is aged now, her hair having turned a deep shade of grey. Decades of rebuilding, reforming, new relations and the overthrowing of Noxus former High command; a stressful life indeed but she hasn’t had to live it alone. 

The elder cups the hand of her old friend who hasn’t aged a day and places a teacup of hot tea onto the mantle of the memorial. 

Her fingers brush the snow off of the plaque. 

_ Master General Riven _

_ Commander of the Fury Company _

_ Wanderer of Ionia _

_ Honor to those who die with their ideals at heart _

There is a line of Ionian inscribed at the bottom of it all. A mystery to many Noxian who do not read the language. Riven had insisted it before her death.

_ Be kind to her when she stops wandering _

Karma squeezes the cold hand, receiving one for comfort.

It’s been years, but it still stings as if it were yesterday.

-undone-

Irelia sits in the sunlight that shines too bright for her liking. The grass whispers its secrets to her, like a prayer to for maddeningly empty mind. 

Two stakes jut out of the soil before her, nexus shards embedded in each of them. 

Red prayer slips fluttering in the wind. 

“Do you remember them?” 

Irelia jerks at the voice, never had she been approached this far out of civilization. Her blade, however, lays in the grass, unfazed by the stranger. She does not recognize the voice nor the face, but a name comes to mind.

Leblanc

“Now and then.” Something compels her to humor the woman. 

But the answer today is no. She feels her chest ache, yearning for something but no memory of what once filled it. It’s all numb when she wipes the tears away, emotionless when she chokes back the sobs. 

Just emptiness

“Time doesn’t make it easier.” 

The woman sounds sorrowful, voicing what Irelia feels. 

A hand extends a cup of amber liquid. 

Irelia accepts, it has no taste, not even a temperature. Only the steam tells her that it should be hot. She drinks it anyways. 

“I loved someone once.” She glances over, LeBlanc’s eyes are downcast. “I still do.” A soft smile.

“What happened?”

“She was growing old. I had told her what I was, she said she didn’t care. One day, she was just so excited, her smile.” A pause, it must’ve been a fond memory. “She told me she had a surprise, a way that would let her live forever with me.”

Painted fingertips pull along the lip of white porcelain. 

“She doesn’t remember me. Dear Lissandra...The Freljord has not been kind to her.” 

None of it means anything to Irelia. 

“What happens now.” The question feels familiar on her tongue. 

“We continue living, if you could call it that.” 

LeBlanc vanishes in an instant. In the grass lays a crisp envelope.

There is no seal, for some reason Irelia had expected there to be. The card inside slides out effortlessly.

“Karma”

“Riven”

Clear liquid drips from her chin onto the paper. 

She doesn’t feel anything

All she knows is that her tears are for the names on the cards, the names on the graves.

Who ever they were

-undone-

Mom used to tell me this tale when I was little just like you. See, I wasn’t an ‘indoors only’ child. There wasn’t a tree that was left untouched by me in a 5 mile radius of the house. 

Pretty impressive if I do say so myself. 

Anyways, she would sit me down after my long days of exploring and she’d start:

“Let me tell you the tale of the wanderer.”

Even though I’ve heard it like a hundred time, I would still get excited and urge her on. 

“There is a woman that travels in the forests of Pronsia. From Parona to the Southern Isles of Stenic. She is always seen wearing the armor of the ancestors. She never sleeps never eats, never breathes; simply walks across the island to no end. 

Some call her a god, others think her a ghost. No one knows exactly where she came from or why she wanders the land.”

She would end the tale telling me to be careful and not approach the Wanderer. Though she has never hurt anyone, the priests say it would be disrespectful to get in her way. 

I used to think it some folktale just like the blood moon warriors. No one in the village has ever seen her, plus, you know how mom gets. It wasn’t until I met the wanderer did I believe. 

It was a winter day, the sky overcast and getting dark quickly. I found this hill near Phoenix Lake, the only hill of its size I have ever encountered out in the woods. It’s a wonder I never noticed it before. 

Course I climbed it.

To my surprise, there were two stakes just sticking out the ground. They looked as old as dirt but the nexus shards in each of them must’ve been the only things keeping them from crumbling to dust. 

And she was the one who approached me. 

“Riven and Karma.” 

She came from behind, seemingly out of the darkness. Startled the stars out of me it did. And just as mom said; she wore red Ionian armor with a mantle floating behind her head and some sort of blade by her side. 

She had these wicked sharp eyes but when she looked at the sticks, they just got sad.

“Pardon?” 

“Her name was Riven.” She pointed to the left stake, “She was the commander of the Fury Company in Noxus.” 

Then she pointed to the right one.

“Her name was Karma, she was an elder of Ionia.”

She sounded lost, like she was reading directions off a map. 

No I know I should’ve been scared, especially when a famed spirit ghost person starts pointing at graves and naming them. But there was nothing I wanted more in that moment than to just hug her and tell her everything was going to be alright.

‘Name’s Zelos! What’s yours?’

In hindsight, was a good thing I was a kid and my blunt introduction forgivable. 

She looked at me funny, like she hadn’t had a real conversation in her life before. Her eyes narrowing, thinking real hard. 

‘I am... Irelia, Captain of the Guard.’

It was then I noticed the blade thing by her side start swaying back and forth like a pup. It floated over to the graves and kinda just sat there, if weapons could look like they were sitting.

I wanted to ask her so many things but the forest was hard to navigate at night. I knew I had to start heading back home soon if I wanted to make it before nightfall. 

‘Can I meet you here tomorrow morning, Miss Irelia? I could bring my mom’s homemade custard buns! Do you like custard buns? My mom makes the best ones.’ 

By the stars, she looked so confused. But she did crack a smile. Smallest little thing I’ve ever seen but she looked a bit rusty on the smiling thing so I let it slide. 

‘That would be nice.’ 

“What happened next? What happened next Ze-Ze?”

The young boy babbles excitedly, the covers slipping out from under his chin.

Zelos chuckles, pulling the sheet back up and tucking her little brother in. 

“That’s a tale for another night. You need to get to sleep.” 

“But Ze-Zeeee.” He whines, trying to twist out from under the blanket.

“No buts.” She kisses his forehead lightly, “How about I tell you the rest tomorrow morning over some of mom’s custard buns?” 

The child’s face scrunches up and in the best impersonation of his sister he could muster, “That would be nice.” 

Zelos shakes her head and slides the stool back under the bedside table. The door is quietly shut behind her.

The night air is much like that of her first encounter with the Wanderer years ago, as her memory supplies. A lantern in one hand, a basket in the other. She finds the captain already seated in front of the graves up on the hill. 

The woman reminds her so much of herself.

Irelia glances up at the sound of wicker resting on the grass. A white porcelain cup is set in front of her, hot tea filling it up. 

“Zelos was my brother’s name.”

The Wanderer’s eyes are fearful, her eyebrows drawn together. She struggles to put the memories in thought, thoughts into words. Cold fingers tug at the blades of grass around her. 

“He…” She tries to hard to remember, “was a Sergeant in the Ionian military. He left to…”

Her hands rip the grass from the earth. Frustration bubbling in her chest. The blades beside her rattle on their own. 

Zelos sets a hand on the trembling woman’s shoulder. Comforting people was never her strong point. 

“Shhh, it’s alright, do not force yourself.” 

“I don’t remember, can’t remember. Like plumes of smoke, one glance and they disappear.” 

They sit in silence well into the night, nibbling away at custard buns and sipping hot tea from a lion teapot. She had hoped these things would help the captain remember. 

“I feel empty when I travel. I see the people and feel nothing. Every time I see them, I do not remember any of their faces, the places I've been to.” She pauses and looks up at Zelos. “And yet remember you.”

Zelos stares back. A sad smile, now’s a good time as any. 

“Then perhaps it’s time for you to stop wandering.”

“What?” 

The young woman doesn’t answer, merely gesturing for the captain to stand beside her. 

With a wave of her hand, the soil trembles and shifts. It parts down the front of each stake. Irelia watches impassively with a foreign thumping in her chest. 

She hasn’t felt her heart for centuries. 

The soldier doesn’t quite know what to expect. Through the ages, she would remember less and less about the names carved into the wood. At one point, they stop holding any meaning at all, just a set of characters on a stick impaled into the ground that her feet were drawn to. 

Were they even graves?

Minutes pass, clumps of dirt move, fall and then finally come to a rest. She doesn’t know the term for the tightness in her chest, the clenching of her throat, the urge to run away and forget it all.

Has this happened before?

An item rises up from each of the holes; a shattered sword that glow a dim green from the one marked ‘Riven’ and an ornate mantle much like her own from the grave marked ‘Karma’.

Irelia’s blade lifts her hand and brings it forward to touch the sword. Never had she ever  _ wanted _ to do anything, but right now, she feels as though she  _ needs _ to feel the surface of the broken blade.

And so she does

-undone-

Warmth

No sunlight, not from above

But a warmth from below. 

There is some sort of steaming bun in her hand, warm to the touch. It smells sweet and familiar. 

How did she get here?

Where was here?

Irelia begins to take in her surroundings. No longer at the hilltop, she stands in the middle of a crowded street. The chatter of people hurts her ears, the pushing of their bodies fueling panic in her chest. She begins to back away, the color lanterns above blurring into a storm of color. 

It is not until she feels a squeeze does she realize her fingers are intertwined with another hand. It brings a wave of comfort. 

“Hey, you spacing out on me again?” 

That voice

Her eyes follow up the tan hand wrapped around her own, winding past the scores of scars and settling on the smiling face of a white haired woman. She gets lost examining the face; softhearted scarlet eyes, an old scar on the left edge of her jaw, they way her lips move as she is saying something. 

Irelia sees this woman. She feels her hand, her heart beat, her lungs pulling in air. And yet…

She doesn’t know who she is. 

But she does feels the urge to press their lips together. She remembers the word for it.

A kiss

And so she does.

Their foreheads rest against each other’s as they part, intrigued by the pink blooming across the woman’s face. Something pleasant blooms across her own cheeks. The woman is quiet. 

“Let’s go you lovebirds, the fireworks are about to begin.” 

The captain turns to the voice she again only vaguely recognises. It is another woman, with dark hair and glowing dragon tattoos snaking up her arm. A tug of fondness pulls up the corners of her lips, a friend perhaps. Someone important at the very least.

The bun is filled with warm custard, smothering her tongue with an overpowering sweetness. She can’t get enough it of it. Whoever is holding her hand kisses away the crumbs that are left behind.

She can’t stop smiling

It feels nice.

They push through the crowd, she can begin to point out things she remembers. The wooden post with the carving of an owl, the central temple in the distance, the feeling of the scars on the mystery woman’s back. 

At some point, they make it to the roof of some building. The air is warm and alive with anticipation. There is a strong arm around her waist, wandering fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns onto her side. The emptiness is gone, the restlessness of her feet, longing for something she doesn’t have a name for. She can’t remember how she got here, but she no longer cares.

And so they sit like this, Irelia daring to describe the tingling as  _ happiness _ ; nuzzling into the embrace of whoever this woman is. 

She look at the woman, the world complete.

The urge to kiss her

And so she does

-undone-

Irelia’s eyes slowly slide open, her back on the grass, the late noon sun beating heat down from above her. 

_ Heat _

She can feel the heat. Her mind and eyes search for a woman with the name of Zelos, finding none. Beside her her lay two relics from the graves. Yes? The soil looks undisturbed with greenery that ripples in the wind. 

Between the two stakes is an envelope with a blank face on the front and black wax seal on the back. There is a lotus stamped into the ebony surface.

The paper tears

The lotus remains

A card slides out with elegant Ionian characters. 

“You are welcome, Captain Irelia.”

She gets the urge to smile

And so she does


End file.
